Road Closed Ahead
by happycabbage75
Summary: Sam and Dean run into an urban legend that's not quite what the stories say...
1. Chapter 1

**Road Closed Ahead**

Summary: Sam and Dean run into an urban legend that's not quite what the stories say...

Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing. Still poor as a church mouse.

_The very patient and very kind bhoney won me at auction and this story is the result of her request. It's season 1, post Asylum and Scarecrow. I hope it was up to snuff._

Chapter One

* * *

"Seriously?" Dean asked.

"Yeah."

"_Seriously_?"

"_Yeah_," Sam said again in exasperation.

"The headless horseman."

"Yes, Dean."

"_The_ headless horseman. Rides around chasing the nerdy little guy."

"Ichabod Crane and... sort of. This is _a_ headless horseman, maybe where Irving got the idea for the story... Or maybe not. Who knows? There are dozens of different headless horseman stories all over the country, Europe, too, for that matter."

"This one just happens to be real?"

"Pretty much."

Dean was silent for a moment. "Huh."

"That's all you have to say?" Sam asked. "Huh?"

"Cool?"

Sam just rolled his eyes. "You'll think cool when it's coming after us."

"How scary can it be?" Dean asked. "It's just a dude on a horse. So what if he doesn't have a head? Now Wyatt Earp comes after me on a horse, then I'll think about being worried."

"I'll remember you said that."

"I bet you will," Dean said, just a hint of bitterness in his voice. "In fact, I'm sure you'll hold it against me for years to come."

The sudden bitterness drew Sam up short. Getting back together after the whole mess at the asylum had been easy enough once they had their talk on the phone and got past the psycho scarecrow. Sam still felt guilty about shooting Dean, but he also still thought his brother was an idiot for not going after their father when they had a chance at tracking him down. No doubt, Dean still thought he was an idiot for always questioning what their father told them to do.

The result was that they kept running over potholes that reminded Sam their relationship never had been smooth sailing. The things he'd said at the asylum, and that they'd yelled at each other before Dean drove off without him, had been years in the making, years of hard feelings, years of resentment and fights, all building up and turned against each other.

Physically, they weren't in any better shape. Even though they'd had a few days since the asylum, Sam was still having terrible headaches and was afraid to ask just what had caused the nosebleed. Dean clocking him might have a little something to do with it as well. For Dean's part, he hadn't said anything, but his chest had to be a bruised mess and getting blown through a wall couldn't have done him any favors. He'd also somehow ended up trussed to a tree in an orchard, sporting a beauty of a shiner.

As a result, while Sam was squinting painfully at the computer screen, his brother was currently lying flat on his back in bed. Granted, Dean's normal tendency was to stay in bed until forced to rise. Hurt or not, if he could mock from a prone position, then all the better from Dean's point of view.

With all of that in mind, Sam chose to deflect a potential argument. "If I get run down by a horseman? You bet your ass I'll hold it against you forever."

"Awww... Poor Sammy. You never did like horses," Dean said, accepting the verbal side-stepping as Sam had known he would. Winchesters were masters of the refusal to discuss what was really bothering them. It was practically in the training manual.

"And you do? You've never been closer to a horse than driving past one."

A strange expression crossed Dean's face. "Yeah." He smiled tightly. "What would I know?"

Sam frowned, his curiosity suddenly piqued. "What-"

Dean sat up abruptly, paling as he slid his legs over the side of the bed. He remained very still for a second, and Sam wasn't sure if it was his head or his ribs giving him grief. "So where is this guy?" Dean asked, still breathing a little too carefully. "Where do we have to go?"

Sam sighed, making a mental note to ask about the horse thing again later. "It's in Massachusetts."

Dean pursed his lips in concentration. "That's not where the story's from, is it?"

"The Sleepy Hollow stuff is set in New York. Revolutionary War era. The ghost was supposedly a Hessian."

"Did you just sneeze?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Hessian. Soldier, sort of a mercenary type in this case."

"Any idea if this thing in Massachusetts is the same kind of deal?"

Sam just shrugged. "Don't know. Just found an article saying there'd been another sighting of the horseman. The witness was suspect-"

"You mean drunk," Dean cut in.

"Probably," Sam admitted. Discrediting a witness who had some personal issues was one of the most common ways for people to ignore the weird crap that went on in the world. "But the article says there have been numerous sightings over the years. It at least deserves a look."

Dean sighed and ran a hand through his hair tiredly. "You just want to go because it's ringing all your nerd bells." Dean scrunched up his nose in distaste. "Why does that sound kinda dirty?"

"Cause _you _are kinda dirty." Sam snorted. "So, it's a famous story and I'm interested. Sue me. We'll just go and see what we find. You in?"

Dean grinned suddenly. "It'll be like Lit class... but with shotguns. I'm in."

* * *

Dean walked into the front office of the little rundown motel. It had been a long drive to get to Massachusetts, and he just wanted a shower, some food, and some sleep, not necessarily in that order. His ribs were killing him after sitting in the car all day, bouncing over the roads, and his head wasn't doing him any favors either. He doubted Sam was feeling too great himself. Dean had kept the music at an indecently low volume and Sam hadn't called him on it, which meant his head was still hurting, too.

Dean was trying not to let the lingering effects of what happened at the asylum bother him, but it was hard to ignore when they were both still wincing every time the lights were too bright, or someone slammed a door too closely to them. Dean was especially worried for Sam. He'd had several days for his headache to pass and it was still hanging around.

"Can I help you?" the woman behind the desk asked. She was short, in her mid-fifties with dark hair pulled back in a bun, although her roots were showing a bit. She was wearing an apron over her shirt and slacks and Dean guessed she must do the housekeeping as well.

"A room with two doubles, please." The woman looked past him to the car where Sam was waiting for Dean to return with the key. "My brother," Dean offered. "We're just staying for a couple of days."

"I don't want any trouble. You understand?" she said straightly.

Dean put on his most innocuous expression. "No, ma'am. Wouldn't dream of it."

She looked him dead in the eye. "Sure, honey. That's what all the hunters say."

* * *

_More soon..._


	2. Chapter 2

**Road Closed Ahead**

Summary: Sam and Dean run into an urban legend that's not quite what the stories say...

_So let's get this story going..._

Chapter Two

* * *

"Hunters?" Dean said innocently, despite the fact that the hair on the back of his neck was standing on end. "I have no idea what's in season, and my brother out there," he jerked a thumb toward the car, "is a card carrying PETA member. Won't even let me eat eggs when he's around. Me? I'm good with free range."

The woman's eyes narrowed and she looked surprisingly dangerous for such a little person. "You think you're the first hunters to stay in this place? We've got a headless horseman in town. It tends to get the attention of people like you."

"Oh, there's nobody like me." Dean grinned, giving her the benefit of the full lascivious wattage.

The woman snorted, but a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. "Something tells me that's probably true."

"So will you give us a room?" Dean asked.

"Cash only," she said, all business. "I'm guessing the only cards you have are stolen or under assumed names. I don't need that headache."

Dean shifted uncomfortably at how quickly she had them pegged. Maybe he wasn't as unique as all that. "Cash, it is."

"And I'll require a $100 deposit. You make it through your stay without getting blood on my sheets I'll give it back to you."

"I wouldn't-"

Faster than Dean could move, she reached out and grabbed Dean's hand. Before he could jerk it back, she'd tugged up his sleeve exposing the marks around his wrist where he'd been tied to the tree waiting for the scarecrow to kill him. She pointed to the fading bruises around his eye, and then pointed toward Sam outside. "Your brother's head's killing him, too."

"Ran into a little trouble."

"And apparently got out of it," she said, releasing his hand. Dean pulled it back and ignored the urge to rub at the ligature marks on his wrists. "I hope," she continued, "that means you're smarter than you look."

Dean just nodded. He could appreciate a woman with moxie. He reached into his wallet, pulled out a pair of hundreds and set them on the counter. "Will that hold us for a couple of days?"

The woman scooped up the money and tucked it in the pocket of her apron. "Fair warning. If the horseman kills you," she pointed a finger at him, although there was a definite twinkle in her eye, "I still get to keep the deposit."

"Duly noted."

The little woman pulled a key off the rack sitting behind the counter and tossed it to him. "You should go to the library. You'll find what you're looking for there."

Dean nodded his thanks. "That pans out, I might let you keep the deposit anyway."

* * *

"Look at this," Sam said in nearly reverent tones.

Dean shoved aside the oversized bound volume of newspapers he'd been thumbing through. As near as they could tell, the sightings had no rhyme or reason. The horseman showed up seemingly at random to scare the crap out of people who also followed no discernable pattern. So far they had sightings all the way back into the mid 1700s which meant this ghost was a lot older than most of what they dealt with. The country just wasn't that old. West of the Appalachians, it was rare to find anything past the 1850s. Most native cultures took great pains to ensure the departed was at rest and didn't cause the living any grief.

"What is it?"

Sam was walking back from the section devoted to local history carrying what looked like an old leather-bound book. "Dean," he whispered. "It looks like a hunter wrote this."

"No kidding?" Dean said at normal volume, resulting in a glare from one of the librarians.

"It says here he left it 'For those seeking to solve the problem of the horseman'."

"Catchy title. What's it say?"

Sam mumbled to himself as he glanced through the pages. "Give me a minute," he finally said. "His handwriting's worse than Dad's."

Dean sighed and wandered back toward the desk. There were several librarians, most of them seniors supplementing their social security. He quickly zeroed in on the least sour looking of them, a pleasant looking blue-hair in a cheerful flowered dress. "Hi."

"Can I help you?"

"I'm a reporter with the _Daily News_. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions."

"If this is about the new budget, then I'm not allowed to comment," she began, but Dean quickly held up a hand to stop her.

"We're doing a human interest story," he said. "The horseman, how the story has affected the locals, sightings, where the legend started, that sort of thing."

The woman studied him for several seconds with one eyebrow raised. "Look, if you're just here to make fun of the ignorant country bumpkins and their ghost story, then-"

Once again, Dean held up a hand. "Absolutely not. I'll tell you the truth." He leaned forward conspiratorially. "I saw a ghost once. Nobody's ever believed me. I like to look into stories like this where there are lots of people who all say they've seen the same thing."

The woman relaxed somewhat, glancing from side to side as if afraid of being overheard. "I saw him once."

"You did?" Dean asked. He'd known as soon as she got defensive about a possible story.

"He was near the cemetery."

"The one out on Barton Road?"

"Yes, that's where he almost always is."

"Did he chase you?"

She shook her head. "He was on his horse, just… standing there at the edge of the cemetery. Kind of like he was guarding it." She visibly shivered. "I don't drive past there anymore. Most people don't."

"Have you ever looked into the stories?"

She smiled wryly. "I am a librarian," she said, as if that explained everything. "There have been sightings all the way back into the late 1600s."

"Is that so?" Dean said, surprised yet again. It took a _very_ determined ghost to hang around that long.

"It can't be proven," she leaned closer to whisper, "but local legend has it, it started during the witch trials."

Dean frowned. "Witch trials… as in the Salem witch trials?"

"They weren't actually confined to Salem. There were trials in quite a few other places, here being one of them."

"What does the story say about the horseman? How was he supposed to be involved?"

"Martha," a woman's voice snapped, "what are you going on about now?"

Dean and the nice librarian jumped at the interruption. A sour-faced, steel-gray haired woman who had "bitter old maid" stamped on her forehead had managed to sneak up on them and catch them talking about a non-Dewey-Decimal related topic.

Dean slapped on a non-threatening smile. "Martha was just helping me navigate the local history section." He nodded toward her, his smile more genuine. "Thank you for your help."

"No, thank you," she said, still looking nervously toward the other woman who was probably her boss.

Dean walked back toward Sam, ignoring the evil eye the old biddy was giving him. It was easy to ignore. He'd been glared at by the best, and it would take more than one bossy librarian to break him.

Dean slid into the seat next to Sam who still had his nose in the leather-bound book. "You ready to tell me what you found now?" When Sam didn't respond, he purposely jostled him.

Sam shot him a glare that was about as effective as the librarian's. "Dude, knock it off. Do you have to be such a jerk?"

Dean grinned. "Everybody's got to be good at something."

"I'm trying to work here," Sam griped. "Can you leave me alone for like five minutes?"

"Sorry," Dean said, his tone deceptively light. "I get confused. Sometimes there's work and you ignore it and take off, and sometimes, there's work and you just ignore _me_."

Sam's expression fell. "Dean, I didn't-"

"Whatever," Dean quickly cut him off. "Just tell me what you found. I got some info from one of the librarians."

Sam huffed in annoyance at the rebuff. "I'll check this out and look at it later." He stood and did a library-appropriate version of stomping toward the desk. It was so ridiculous looking, it was almost worth the silent treatment Dean knew he was going to get for the rest of the evening.

Dean headed out to the car and Sam followed a good twenty minutes later, no doubt just to piss him off. Sam got in, his eyes purposely averted, his jaw set. They both remained silent as Dean started the car and pulled away, Dean simply because silence wasn't necessarily a bad thing since when his brother started talking it would probably be explosive, Sam because he was formulating all the ways in which he was right and Dean was a jerk and preparing his rant accordingly.

Dean pulled up to a drive-thru and Sam just shrugged when Dean looked in his direction for his order. He therefore ordered anything on the menu that looked like rabbit food before adding a triple burger for himself.

Dean continued back to their motel, and parked in front of the room, still in silence. Sam got out of the car and slammed the door behind him, making Dean grimace, both for the car's sake and for his pounding head's. He watched as Sam marched to the room and threw the door open only to stop dead in his tracks, his body suddenly tense as if for a fight. Dean was beside him in an instant, his hand on the gun at his back.

"What's wrong?"

Sam just pointed. Sitting right in the middle of the bed closest to the door was a human head, and from the smell it was pretty fresh.

Dean swore. "Well, one thing's for sure… We just lost our deposit."

* * *

_More soon..._


	3. Chapter 3

**Road Closed Ahead**

Summary: Sam and Dean run into an urban legend that's not quite what the stories say...

_When last we met, the boys had just found a very unpleasant gift left for them..._

Chapter Three

* * *

All of Sam's anger at his brother drained away at the sight of the head propped up in the middle of the bed closest to the door. Dean abruptly pushed Sam into the room and shut the door behind them. "Dean, what-"

"Dude, you're standing in an open doorway with a decapitated head in plain view. Pardon me, if I think that's not the best idea for keeping a low profile."

Sam held back, but Dean walked straight up to the bed. He poked the head with a finger and it toppled onto its side. "Looks pretty fresh," he observed. "And messy. Like... it was ripped off."

Sam swallowed the bile that was threatening to rise. This was why he left. He didn't want it to be just another day on the job when he walked into a room and dispassionately had to assess a severed head that had been left for him to find. Dean took it in stride, but Sam had been away from this for years. It still drew him up short. He _wanted_ it to. No normal person should have to deal with this on a daily basis. Bodies and the monsters that had killed them shouldn't be just another work day.

He just had to find the thing that killed Jess and then he'd be free. Maybe... maybe it would be different this time with Dean. Not with their dad, of course, but after what Dean had said to him on the phone... maybe things could be different. Then again, maybe not, judging by the snide remarks his brother couldn't help making.

"I've seen this guy before," Dean said, almost to himself.

"What? Where?"

Dean just stood there for a minute, staring at the head, which was freaky in and of itself. The clouded eyes were half open, almost staring back, although they clearly belonged to a dead man. Whoever it was he was dark-headed, with hair somewhere between Dean's length and Sam's, but his features were distended to the point that identifying him would be difficult.

"Jack," Dean whispered in surprise.

"Who?"

"Jack," he said again. "No clue what his last name is... was."

"You knew him?"

"He was a hunter. I bet he saw the same article you did and came here to check it out."

"When did you meet him?" Sam asked curiously.

Dean turned toward him, a frown on his face. "While you were at school."

"You hunted with him while I was at school?" It was weird for Sam to even think about. Intellectually, he knew his brother had stayed on the job, but to actually hear about it seemed wrong.

"Dude, I had work to do," Dean said, his tone definitely surly. "What did you think? I'd just get a job at a bait shop in Omaha?"

"No, I..." Sam trailed off, surprised by the response and the irritation in his brother's voice.

Dean rubbed a hand over his neck, kneading the tense muscles. "He was a good guy. Saved my butt. Dad was off doing his own thing, and if Jack hadn't been there..."

The bottom dropped out of Sam's stomach. He could only imagine. He knew how quickly things could go wrong in their business. The thought that their dad had left Dean to do it alone and Dean had ended up in trouble just made him want to track down his dad and kick his ass.

"I didn't see you there either," Dean said, clearly reading the anger on Sam's face. "Just... whatever." Dean let out a huff. "We talked about this already, just..." He clenched his jaw in frustration, his attention still on the dead man's head. "Damn it, Jack."

Sam backed off, feeling low for making it worse when Dean had just lost someone who must have meant something to him, if for no other reason than he saved Dean when no one else could.

Dean suddenly turned away from the bed and marched to the door.

"Where are you going?"

Dean didn't answer, just ripped open the door and marched outside. He returned only a few seconds later with a plastic grocery bag, slamming the door closed behind him. He walked straight up to the bed, grabbed the head in an awkward grip and stuffed it into the bag with a murmured, "Sorry, Jack."

"What are you gonna do?"

"This was left as a warning for us to back off. The least I can do is salt and burn him."

"What about the rest of him?"

"I'll burn the rest of him if I find him," Dean bit out, then more calmly, "You keep looking at that book you found. I want a report when I get back. The lady at the library said the sightings go all the way back to the witch trials."

"Here?"

"Apparently, Salem just gets all the bad press." He tied the handles of the plastic bag together with a little more force than necessary.

"I'll see what I can find," Sam promised seriously, seeing how agitated his brother was. He dealt with death all the time, but when it was someone he knew, Dean took it as personally as anyone would, maybe more so since they knew so few people.

"Dean, whatever this is, we're obviously not the first hunters to try to take care of the problem."

Dean smirked. "Dude, I'm holding somebody's head. Pretty sure I get it."

"Just... be careful, ok? Until we know what's actually going on."

Dean opened the door, calling back over his shoulder, "Don't worry, Sammy. Some of us know how to come back."

* * *

Sam looked up from the journal when he heard the impala pull back into the lot. He glanced at the clock, unsure how much time had passed, he'd been so engrossed in deciphering the hunter's scrawled notes.

Dean walked in, smelling like smoke, looking dirty and a bit grim. It was always different when it was someone you knew. He dropped into the other chair at the little table where Sam had been working. "So... tell me this other hunter found something. And tell me why he didn't take care of it himself."

"It looks like he found plenty and it looks like he gave up."

"He gave up?"

"Yeah." Sam set the journal aside, trying to mentally organize everything he'd found. "So what you said about the witch trials looks like it's probably true. This hunter nosed around and apparently, there was a guy at the time named William Maples, who was furious about the trials. As soon as he heard that someone had been accused, he would ride to the house and sneak them out of the area before they could be arrested."

"A Massachusetts version of the Scarlet Pimpernel."

Sam blinked, momentarily stunned. "How do you know that?" The story of a British aristocrat who secretly worked to save French aristos from the guillotine wasn't exactly something that would be in his brother's repertoire.

Dean shifted uncomfortably. "There was an old movie on late night. Jane Seymour... they wore those corset things... Made the girls," he held up his hands in the standard boob gesture, "sit up."

Sam simply sat there, stunned, for a few seconds. "That is wrong on so many levels I don't even know where to start."

"Man, we stay in crapholes with only three TV channels. The options are limited. Besides..." He shrugged. "Heroes... fighting evil... save the girl... What's not to like?"

"Anyway," Sam said, choosing to ignore the interlude, "this guy apparently saved quite a few people who were accused of being witches or warlocks."

"Since the dude's running around without a head, I'm gonna say the superhero gig went south."

"It must have, although the man who took all these notes can't figure out why."

"What does he know?"

"He knows that the last accused person Maples tried to save was his own wife."

Dean frowned. "Sounds like someone found out who was doing the rescuing and went for the low blow."

Sam nodded in agreement. "There was a rumor that some kids dug up the body and told everyone the head was missing, but he couldn't verify it. The guy says he tried to dig up Maples himeslf, but every time he went near the grave he either got caught by the authorities or the horseman tried to take off his head. Apparently, the horseman's killed a lot of hunters."

Dean cocked his head to one side in thought. "How long ago was that written?"

"Don't know," Sam shrugged, thumbing through the journal again. "A while. The pages are yellow."

"You know where he's buried?"

"Yeah. The cemetery near where most of the sightings have been." He held up the old book. "He's got a little map in here with the plot marked."

"Then let's go." Dean stood and walked to the door. "I'm guessing the guy who wrote that didn't know about salt rounds." He pulled the door open. "This horseman has a hot date with my shotgun."

* * *

Dean parked the car at the back of the cemetery, well away from the road where anyone might see it and away from the house that stood on the far side of the graveyard. Sam got out and met Dean at the trunk, both moving quietly. Sam very carefully watched, peering through the darkness. They were alone, except for a small field full of bodies, but that did not change the fact that Sam felt as if something were wrong.

"What is it?" Dean whispered.

"Don't know," Sam replied at the same volume, grateful that if nothing else, he wasn't just imagining things. His brother was feeling as twitchy as he was. To his left, he heard a noise. Dean stopped moving and turned his head in the same direction Sam did, but there was no sign of anything.

After several seconds, Dean reached back into the trunk and quickly handed Sam a shotgun loaded with salt rounds, before grabbing a shovel for himself and a duffel with salt, his own shotgun, and a few other odds and ends. "Let's make this quick."

Sam nodded his agreement, grabbing a flashlight and pointing toward the back of the cemetery. "That's the oldest section. The family plot should be back there."

They both stopped dead, this time at the very distinctive sound of a horse snorting in the chilly night air.

"See anything?" Dean asked under his breath.

"Nothing."

The insects all around them fell silent. They both stood stock still at the sound of leather creaking and Sam could just imagine a rider shifting in the saddle. The hair on his neck stood up. Dean shifted so they were standing back to back.

"Keep your eyes peeled," Dean said unnecessarily. "If he goes for the tall nerdy types then I'm pretty sure it's gonna be you he's after."

"Shut up, Dean."

"I'm just sayin'."

They could see absolutely nothing in the darkness, but Sam's heart began pounding in his chest at the sound of hooves. The horse's gait was slow and steady, just a gentle walk, the clip clop of a shod horse as it approached, accompanied by the quieter sound of leather creaking as the rider moved with his mount.

"Where _is_ he?" Dean said in frustration.

"Close," was all Sam could think to answer.

Finally, as if out of nowhere, a huge black stallion shimmered into view about ten yards away. The rider on its back was a cloaked figure straight out of Irving's story. In the darkness, Sam could see the ragged edges of the neck where the head had been removed, and none too neatly from the looks of it.

The rider nudged at the horse's sides to move it forward and the horse responded. Almost immediately, Dean stepped out in front of Sam and fired his shotgun. The rider didn't even flinch. Sam quickly raised his shotgun as well and fired. The horse snorted angrily, but that was the only response as the horseman gripped the reins more tightly and shifted, preparing for a charge.

"You wanna tell me about Wyatt Earp again?" Sam snapped.

"Sam?" Dean said, already turning to flee. "Just shut up and run!"

* * *

_More soon..._


	4. Chapter 4

**Road Closed Ahead**

Summary: Sam and Dean run into an urban legend that's not quite what the stories say...

_Run, boys, run!_

Chapter Four

* * *

Dean sprinted toward the car, leaving the shovel behind but keeping the duffel and his favorite sawed-off shotgun close. It wasn't Marigold's fault that the salt rounds hadn't worked, after all, and he refused to leave her behind. The salt pelting the horseman had definitely sounded like it was hitting something a lot more solid than a pissed off ghost, although neither the horse nor the rider had so much as batted an eye at being shot. Granted, only the horse had eyes, so maybe that was the problem.

Sam ran alongside Dean, but the horseman was faster than them both. He rode ahead of them, turning the horse directly in their path, blocking them from getting to the car. Dean immediately changed tack, and Sam matched him, heading off through the tombstones at an angle to the horseman. Dean heard the horse neigh as the rider sharply jerked the reins. The horse responded quickly, turning to intercept them.

They ran for all they were worth, making a wide arc through the cemetery with the car as their final goal, but the horseman was too fast. Dean could hear the horse's hooves thundering behind them, drawing closer and closer as every second passed.

Suddenly Sam was gone from Dean's side. He stopped dead in his tracks and turned back in time to see the horseman tugging on the reins, causing his mount to raise its front hooves, only to come crashing down on Sam's fallen figure.

All Dean had was Marigold, loaded with salt rounds that didn't work, and a duffel bag, so Dean did the only thing he could think of. He unzipped the bag and emptied its contents on the ground. Dean fearlessly approached the rearing horse, dodging to avoid hooves that he knew could rip skin right off his body. He waved the bag wildly forcing the horse back from Sam and then with a final and very inelegant leap tossed the bag over the horse's head through the large zippered opening. The horse immediately quieted, although it reared again when the rider dug his heels into its side. Dean ignored whatever the horseman decided to do. He grabbed his brother, dragged him to his feet and hauled him the ten yards to the car. Dean had the Impala started and flying out of the cemetery within seconds just about the time the rider had the duffel bag removed from the horse's head. Dean floored the car, roaring away until the speed was simply too much for the horse to keep up.

Dean looked over at his unconscious brother and noted the distinct tang of blood in the air.

Dean gritted his teeth. "Ghost, my ass."

* * *

Dean kicked the motel room door closed behind them and helped Sam to the closest bed. "Easy, Sammy. Easy," he soothed when Sam groaned as he half-sat, half-fell on the bed. Dean helped him slide down onto a pillow, and then lifted his legs so that he could completely stretch out his too-long frame.

Sam was barely conscious and for that Dean was almost grateful. He unbuttoned Sam's ragged shirt and saw that the horse's hooves had managed to tear open a nice sized gash in his brother's side, not to mention all the bruises and the ribs. More worrisome, however, the side of Sam's head was already swelling and badly bruised. Dean didn't know if he'd taken a direct blow from a flying hoof, or if it had been a glance off the ground or something.

"S'it bad?" Sam asked through gritted teeth.

"Nothing a few band-aids and some spackle can't fix." Dean opened the first-aid box that he'd brought in from the car and began pulling out supplies. He quickly handed his brother several pills and then helped him with a water bottle.

"Spackle?" Sam took another gulp of water before waving it away. "Kinda scarin' me here, Dean." He raised his head to look at his side and then let it fall back. "You know as much about construction stuff as you do about horses."

"Shows what you know. I spent a month putting up drywall a few years ago."

"Seriously?" Sam blinked as if trying to focus.

"Seriously. Dad was laid up, and I had to pay for our room somehow. I bluffed my way onto a crew and figured it out as I went along. About as much fun as ditch digging, but it kept us fed."

"How did we get away from the h-horse…" Sam stumbled over the word as Dean began cleaning the gash in his side with holy water.

Sam swore, using a few words Dean hadn't thought were even in his brother's vocabulary, then pinched his lips together and fell silent, breathing rapidly through his nose in an effort to control the pain.

"Make all the noise you want," Dean said. "The owner knows we're hunters and the deposit's long gone."

Sam just remained silent, panting, his fists clenched at his sides as Dean finished cleaning the wound and began getting out what he would need to stitch it up.

"How did we get away from the horseman?" Sam asked again.

"I threw the duffel bag over the horse's head. It calmed right down."

Dean glanced up at his brother's face and saw Sam frowning. "What is it? Something hurt more than your side?"

"How did you know to do that?"

"Throw a bag over its head? Seemed like a good idea at the time."

"Figured you were more the _Blazing Saddles_ type." Sam swallowed audibly, agony etched on his features. "Just punch the horse."

Dean snorted. "The thought might have crossed my mind, but uhh… yeah, the bag was better."

"You got a soft spot for horses?" Sam asked, his breathing turning close to a wheeze all of his muscles were so tense.

"Ask me again sometime," Dean evaded.

Sam jumped at the first bite of the needle into his skin, but only a few moments later he finally relaxed into unconsciousness. Dean let out his own sigh of relief. He hated sewing up people no matter what, but if he had to, then he'd take passed out over awake any day of the week, especially when it was family.

"That's it," Dean murmured. "Take a load off. Been a rough couple of days anyway. You just get some rest." Dean quickly stitched up his brother, careful to make the stitches as fine as he could. Scars were no help in their business. They made them stand out, and not just to doctors. Scars were warnings that their owner just might not be trustworthy and getting information out of people required them to trust you, at least for a few minutes.

Dean straightened from his work and let out a low groan. His back and his ribs were killing him. Hauling a Sasquatch through a cemetery wasn't all it was cracked up to be, then leaning over to work on Sam had set his entire chest right back into screaming mode. Not to mention his head. He and Sam were both going to need a vacation once this hunt was done. Maybe they could go visit Auggie and his horses. He could tell Sam had a bee in his bonnet to know the story, but unfortunately, Dean had no doubt that it would just piss Sam off, so it was a no go.

Dean pulled the comforter up over Sam and made sure he was as comfortable as possible, then sat down gingerly at the table beside the bed. The journal Sam had found at the library was sitting on top. Dean knew he wouldn't be able to sleep for a while, so he decided to take a look. Maybe his brother had missed something that could help them. Dean began scanning the pages and immediately concurred with Sam's assessment that the guy's handwriting was even crappier than Dad's.

There were lists of people the horseman had saved, the people he hadn't, a lot of details about the horseman and his family, where they'd lived, blah, blah, blah. None of it stood out as really useful. The hunting business was usually pretty straight forward. Figure out who was causing the problem, then salt and burn them. Which was kind of funny since all of this started with the witch trials, what with the whole medieval burn-the-witch thing. Of course, the accused witches in Salem had been hanged so nothing was normal about this case.

Dean set the book down. They were idiots.

Witch trials.

Nothing was ever straight forward when witches were involved, especially if a real witch had been hiding in amongst all the accused witches. If a _real_ witch was holding on to the guy's head, then this was an entirely different ballgame. Dean quickly pulled a receipt out of his pocket and scratched out a note that he was going to the library. He doubted Sam would wake up before he got back, but better safe than sorry.

Dean stood up and groaned as his ribs once again protested. He cast a final glance at Sam to make sure he was as patched up as he could manage for the time being. Freaking horseman. Dean really needed to have words with that guy. And he would. Just as soon as he found the guy's head... and maybe the witch who'd started it all.

* * *

_More soon..._


	5. Chapter 5

**Road Closed Ahead**

Summary: Sam and Dean run into an urban legend that's not quite what the stories say...

_Pardon the delay. I get very grumpy without a nice Sunday afternoon nap..._

Chapter Five

* * *

Sam awoke slowly, his head beating in time with his heart, which really wasn't supposed to happen. He shifted slightly and his entire nervous system lit up like it was on fire, the center of the blaze somewhere on his left side near his hip.

"Dean?" Sam's voice sounded pathetic even to him. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Dean?"

There was no answer, which Sam knew wasn't right. Still, he was in the motel room and not dead on the ground in the cemetery, so he had that going for him. He could still feel the horseman grasping his collar and hauling him backwards until Sam had stumbled, falling under the horse's hooves. If he'd thought the horse was huge before, then lying on the ground looking up at it while it decided whether or not to trample him to death made the animal the size of a rhinoceros.

Sam raised a hand and very gently set it against the side of his face. He could already tell it was swollen, and this headache made the previous one feel like it was nothing.

"Dean?" he tried again, louder. Maybe he was in the bathroom or something, Sam thought, but again there was no response.

Sam turned onto his relatively uninjured side and groaned at the fresh wave of pain that rolled through him from head to foot, then right back up to his head which was going to explode if he didn't quit moving around.

Sam ordered his eyes to focus and succeeded marginally. Instead of four tables next to the bed there were only two, and on top of them were two pieces of paper. Of course, his idiot brother would leave him a note, but put it somewhere Sam would have to get out of bed to look at.

Sam shifted very, very slowly, keeping his blurry eyes on the note, willing it to come closer to him, finally using the more solid of the two tables to help him sit up. His side told him that was possibly the worst idea he'd had all day, but he forced himself to focus on the piece of paper. Dean wouldn't have left him in the state he was in without a decent reason.

"_Gone to library_," he read aloud, "_Info on w. trials. Must be real witch in town. Back soon, D_."

Sam tried to wrap his brain around that and decided they should have considered that earlier. If other hunters hadn't been able to take the horseman out, then there must be more to it than the obvious. Starting around the time of the witch trials should have been a barn-sized clue. He was going to blame his muddled thinking on his post-asylum headache.

So Dean had gone after books at the library. It was still night and Dean would have to break in. That wasn't bad in and of itself, but Sam was suddenly very uncomfortable.

If there really was a witch doing this, then she was the one who'd put the other hunter's head in their room. That also meant that she'd realized they were in town almost as soon as they'd arrived. And other than the woman at the front desk who was _seriously_ pissed about anyone messing up her sheets, the only other people they'd even talked to were the librarians.

Which meant that if Sam knew anything about his brother, he was in serious trouble right about now.

Sam grasped the table and pulled himself to his feet. He nearly blacked out, but he held his ground and waited patiently for his vision to clear, or at least until the black receded and there were only two doors to their room instead of twenty.

Sam staggered toward the door. First things first. He was going to have to steal a car.

* * *

Dean sat against the wall, studying the book beneath the dim security light. It was nearly word for word what he'd already read in the old hunter's journal. There was even a section on Maples and his attempts to rescue accused witches and warlocks before they were arrested.

Dean's eyes snapped up. He was almost certain he'd heard a footfall. He held very still and listened, but there was nothing else. He wanted to ignore the sound. It was a very old building with lots of books and shelves to shift during the night, but that didn't change the fact that his hair was standing on end.

Dean focused back on the book, although he kept his ears pricked. The only new tidbit he could find was on the witches' accuser. Unlike in Salem where multiple girls had pointed fingers, every one of the witches in this town had been accused by a single person, a young woman that very little was known about other than she'd gotten a handful of people killed.

Dean closed the book and decided to head back to the motel. He really needed to check on Sam, who was no doubt still passed out. Even so, Dean hated leaving him alone. He'd take the book and check the internet for info. If that didn't work, he'd come back during business hours to see if he could find more on the witches' accuser since she was the only one in this mess they hadn't really looked into.

Dean rose from the floor and headed for the rear exit. Breaking into the library had been child's play. If he was feeling generous, he might even reset the alarm for them when he left.

"I don't believe you have a library card, young man." Dean froze. "I'm going to have to ask you to put that book back."

He turned toward the sound of the voice and saw an older woman standing not far from the security light he'd been sitting under. It took him a second, but he realized he'd seen her before. She was the nasty librarian who'd scared the lady who'd been helping him the day before.

"So," Dean said, his voice sounding very loud in the silent building, "not a bitter old maid. I'm guessing... bitter old witch. Like... _really_ old."

"Finally figured it out, did you?" she asked calmly.

"It kinda helps when you show up wearing an I'm-the-bad-guy t-shirt."

"I'm protecting what's mine," she snapped. "You came in here, tripping every ward I have in place, intending to find a way to kill me. Not very nice."

"Nice?" Dean repeated. "Is that what you call whatever you did to the horseman? Pretty sure he'd like his head back at some point. And that's not to mention all the people he's offed or scared to death." An image of Jack's head sitting on the bed flashed in front of his eyes, and Dean once again found himself becoming furious.

"I was about to be accused of witchcraft, so I turned the tables and made sure no one would suspect me. Mr. Maples was interfering."

"So you stole his head and turned him into the local boogeyman," Dean said snidely.

"It was necessary," she replied coldly.

"For what?"

"For the spell."

"What spell?"

"This is becoming very tiresome," she said with a sigh.

Dean cocked his head to the side. "You know, you're not looking too shabby for a chick that's been around since dirt was young."

The witch's eyes narrowed. "How very kind of you to notice."

"Let me guess. A spell."

"Very astute. What a smart hunter you are." Her voice dripped with sarcasm.

"Smart enough to get this far."

"Child, I leave that idiot hunter's journal here in the library for a reason. Every hunter who comes to this town finds it." She looked at Dean straightly. "And I find them."

"You killed Jack."

"The present I left for you? Yes." She smiled a truly wicked smile. "He was after Mr. Maples and I do hate to have anyone interfering with him. I was hoping you would take the hint to leave well enough alone."

"Why?"

"As you so kindly pointed out, I am no spring chicken. But the spell has slowed the process almost to a crawl. Passion and love and a determined desire to protect those around you... that is what keeps a person young. Mr. Maples had all of those in abundance. He still has them. They keep him young and he keeps me young." The woman took a step forward, her eyes suddenly luminous, studying Dean with freakish intensity. "Interesting," she said, almost to herself.

"Whoa," Dean said, a little too loudly. "Don't go getting any ideas, lady. I think one head in the piggy bank is plenty for you."

The woman's expression was impassive as she began muttering under her breath in a language Dean definitely didn't know.

"You know what I love about witches?" Dean asked, reaching behind him for the gun tucked in his waistband. She merely raised an eyebrow. Dean pulled the gun out and aimed it at her heart. "They die just like everybody else."

The woman stopped chanting and smiled. "Do you know what I love about hunters?" she countered. An uncomfortable tingling stole over Dean's body and her smile widened. "They never use their heads."

* * *

_Ahh... Dean in peril... Almost as good as Sunday afternoon naps... More soon!_


	6. Chapter 6

**Road Closed Ahead**

Summary: Sam and Dean run into an urban legend that's not quite what the stories say...

_Time for a showdown..._

Chapter Six

* * *

Sam pulled the stolen Datsun to a halt just in time to see his brother being hauled out the back door of the library by the horseman. He had Dean by the collar of his leather coat and was dragging him behind toward his horse which was stamping in the chilly night air, as if impatient for his master to return.

Sam slammed his hand against the steering wheel and immediately regretted it. Even that slight amount of jarring set off a fresh set of fireworks that was far too close to unconsciousness for comfort.

Sam watched while the horseman dragged Dean up to the horse and unceremoniously hauled him up, throwing him over the horse's back like a sack of potatoes. The horseman then mounted the horse, but became still, almost statue-like, with Dean's body lying completely lifeless behind him. For several moments there was no movement at all, and Sam was clueless as to why until finally he saw the rear door of the library open again and an elderly woman appear. She turned and locked the door before walking straight to the horseman's side. The woman looked up and said something to the headless man who immediately tugged on the horse's reins and turned it toward the edge of town, then master and horse disappeared completely in a flash.

Sam kept his eyes glued to the woman, who he knew must be the witch causing all the trouble. Unlike her minion, she did not simply disappear. She walked toward a brown Buick parked beside the library, got in, and sedately drove away. Sam nearly sobbed in relief. He just couldn't process well enough right now to have figured anything out. Thankfully, his brother might be gone, but he had a trail to follow at least.

Sam followed at what he hoped was a very careful distance, but his head was so messed up he just couldn't be sure. His side was on fire and he would be lucky not to hit a parked car or a telephone pole before the night was over.

The witch headed out of town straight for the cemetery where the horseman liked to hang out, but to Sam's surprise, she continued past it, stopping at the first house beyond it. Sam slowed further, keeping his distance, although he could see the horseman already waiting behind the house for the witch to arrive.

Sam parked the car in the cemetery, struggled out of the little compact and walked as quickly as he could toward the house, moving from tree to tree to stay hidden as well as to have a crutch to keep him standing. As he moved he heard rather than saw his brother falling from the back of the horse to the ground with a thump that audibly drove the air out of him. By the time Sam was close enough, he saw the horseman, who had dismounted, grab Dean by one of his ankles and begin dragging him toward the house.

The witch walked in front of them, but instead of going to the door leading up into the house, she stopped at a set of large exterior wooden doors just above ground level that opened flat to reveal steps leading down into a basement or root cellar. The woman went in first, quickly disappearing, and the horseman followed her. Dean was dragged by the ankle and Sam winced as Dean's head audibly smacked into the steps over and over as the horseman descended the stairs.

Sam crept closer and heard his brother groan in misery. He dared a peek over the edge of the doorway, momentarily dizzied by the odd position and the pressure it put on his side. He was just in time to see Dean's head disappear as he was dragged away from the bottom of the stairs.

Sam straightened, wrapping an arm around his side. He honestly didn't know if he could do this. He was a mess and whatever spell the witch had used to bind the horseman's spirit made him both corporeal and invulnerable to the normal methods. If the rumor in the old hunter's journal was right, there had been a body in the casket, just no head. Sam had to find the head and he had to do it before he passed out or Dean died.

Sam took as deep a breath as his ribs would allow and gingerly set his foot on the top step. To his relief it was stone, so there wouldn't be any creaking boards to give him away. It was a good thing since Sam doubted he was steady enough to get down the stairs with any sort of care. He held on tightly to the wooden banister and slowly descended the steps. He could hear movement and the witch muttering to herself. He reached the bottom and peered around the wall to see Dean being tossed onto a table in the center of the room by the headless man.

Now that they were in a lighted room, the sight was even more ghastly. The blood and torn muscles and tendons in the man's neck were all plainly visible with a bit of bone protruding as well, all appearing fresh as if the wound had been inflicted only minutes ago rather than hundreds of years.

The horseman backed away and the woman stepped up to the table. Sam watched as she put one hand on Dean's brow. The other, she eased beneath his shirt and rested it over his heart. It was as if she had completed an electrical circuit. Dean's body bowed up off the table and the woman threw her head back, her own body arched in either agony or ecstasy. Sam wasn't sure.

"Yes, _yes_," she almost moaned, which Sam guessed answered that question.

She pulled her hand out from underneath Dean's shirt and he immediately sank back to the table. He rolled onto his side, groaning in pain with his arms wrapped around his chest, halfway between conscious and unconscious.

The witch stepped back, looking down at Dean. "So young," she said, "so much passion, such _fire_. Mr. Maples has kept me from aging, but you..." She brushed a hand through his hair almost lovingly. "Such a man could turn back the clock."

Sam looked around the room desperately. The witch wasn't the problem. Well... not the biggest problem. She was human, just with a few bells and whistles. The problem was the horseman. Sam had to get his brother out of the basement past a homicidal spirit who didn't care about salt. Sam needed to find what was holding the horseman here or they were up a creek. He closed his eyes, trying desperately to think past a piercing headache. If he were a witch, where would he put a cursed head?

"There's no need to hide, Sam."

Sam's eyes popped open and his breathing suddenly seemed very loud. Bracing himself, he stepped out from behind the wall he'd been using for cover.

Everyone, Sam, Witch, Horseman, remained absolutely still for several seconds, all sizing the others up. Well, maybe not the horseman. It was difficult to tell without a head and all.

The witch stepped closer to him and away from Dean which was good, sort of. She tilted her head to one side, studying him, her brow furrowed, then quickly took a step back. If Sam didn't know better, he would say she was almost afraid.

"Let my brother go," Sam ordered.

"No, I don't think so." She moved back to the table and rested her hand on Dean's hip. She closed her eyes again and a shiver of obvious pleasure ran through her, making Sam want to hurl.

"If you don't let him go, I'll-"

"Tut tut," she admonished. "Anger and revenge are such nasty things. They will make you old before your time." She watched him warily. "Your entire being is pulsing with your need for vengeance. It is amazing really that you are still functioning."

Sam had to clear his throat of the sudden constriction there. He'd thought the same thing often enough. "It's easy to function when that's the only reason you get up in the morning."

During the whole exchange, Sam was scanning the room for any sign of the horseman's head. The entire space was covered in shelves from floor to ceiling with jars and baskets of every shape and size filling them. Some were very large, but nothing looked like a head, human anyway.

"A pity I can't just kill you," the witch said. "That rage is nothing I want near me, but unfortunately, it appears you boys are a matched pair. Your brother won't be any good to me without you." She sighed. "I will just have to find some place to keep you."

"What does that-"

"Mr. Maples, tie him up and put him in the spare room until I can think of something else."

Immediately, the horseman, who had been standing as still as a statue, started forward. Sam didn't wait for him to get any closer. He turned and ran. There was another room on the other side of the staircase that looked to be the twin of the one he'd just been in. It, too, had floor to ceiling shelves containing every sort of plant and animal that would fit on a shelf. Sam didn't have time to study them, however. He ran through another doorway, nearly braining himself on the header that wasn't even as high as his shoulders. He turned just in time to see the horseman come through it as well, not even having to bend, so Sam guessed there were a few benefits to being headless.

Sam faced forward again to run and was struck by a sudden wave of dizziness. Almost before he realized it was happening, he'd fallen hard enough to daze himself further and in those seconds, he saw it.

The horseman grabbed him by an ankle and began dragging him back toward the staircase leading up into the yard. The head was in a jar very low on a shelf in the last room he'd been in. It was packed with who knew what kind of herbs and other things to keep the spell active. As he was pulled past it, Sam threw out his other leg, using it to brace himself from being pulled through the doorway.

Sam flung out a hand that seemed almost numb it was so disconnected from the rest of him. He fumbled, desperate to grasp the jar. He pushed with the leg braced against the doorpost and it was enough to allow him to wrap his arm around the jar.

The horseman dropped his other ankle and stormed back through the doorway. Sam pulled the jar to him just as the horseman raised his foot and brought it down mercilessly on Sam's already injured side. Sam screamed. There was no other word for it. Fire that had been at low ebb roared back to life, spreading through his entire body. He was going to black out. He could feel it already stealing over him.

With his last bit of strength, Sam hefted the jar and threw it against the stone wall. His vision was already gone, but he heard the ancient glass shatter, felt something that smelled rank wash over his trouser leg and dampen his jeans, then something heavier settle against his leg. Sam had only a moment to realize it was the horseman's head before the pressure was gone.

Sam heard the horseman leave the room, the sound echoing around the stone walls as if across a great distance. He heard a commotion in the next room.

The witch screamed, but the sound was abruptly cut off. A wave of energy burst across Sam's skin and it was more than his already overloaded body could bear. He had one last second to pray that his brother was safe and then Sam was out.

* * *

_Wrap up to come..._


	7. Chapter 7

**Road Closed Ahead**

Summary: Sam and Dean run into an urban legend that's not quite what the stories say...

_So here you have it. Ye olde wrap up..._

Chapter Seven

* * *

Sam woke slowly, forcing his mind to focus past the dull throb that seemed to stretch from head to toe, radiating outward from his side, although his head seemed to have a secondary signal of its own it was sending out.

"Dean?"

"He's still unconscious."

Sam eyes flew open at the sound of a strange voice. It took him several seconds after the _holy-crap-my-eyes-they-burn_ sensation before he managed to zero in on the owner.

It was the lady who ran the motel. She was sitting in a comfy looking chair that hadn't been in their room before. That, however, begged the question of how they got back to their room in the first place.

"How are you feeling?"

Sam focused on her again. Her chair was positioned against the wall between their two beds where the now-missing television stand had been. She was still wearing her apron, but she wasn't looking nearly as tidy as she had the day before. In fact, she looked exhausted.

"I'm..." He had to clear his throat. "I've been better."

She simply nodded. "I would imagine so."

"My brother?" Sam turned his head to the side, grimacing at what a bad idea that had been. Dean was lying in the next bed, pale and very still.

"He'll be all right eventually. The concussion on top of the spell she used is keeping him from waking. I've given him something to counteract both, but it will take a few more hours."

"What did you give him?" Sam asked suspiciously.

She narrowed her eyes. "The same thing I gave you and you'd better be grateful, young man. That headache of yours that you've been fighting since before you came here? You were only a few days away from dying if my guess is right."

Sam suddenly felt lightheaded. "Dying?"

She tapped her forehead between her eyes. "A bleed in your brain if I had to guess. But as I said, I've given you something to help. You should be right as rain in a day or two."

"You're a witch," Sam said as understanding dawned.

"No," she said very firmly. "I am someone who has been forced to learn a great deal to combat the evil that has been done in this town." Her voice softened. "I've worked for years to free my William, but have been unable. I felt the spell binding him break last night. So thank you for that."

"What's your name?" Sam asked, although he was almost certain he already knew it.

She smiled wearily. "Sarah Maples."

"The horseman's wife."

"I am _William's_ wife," she corrected.

"You've been alive all this time," he said in amazement.

She nodded. "It was part of the spell. I was the person he wanted to protect above all else. If I'd died, she would have lost her hold on him and the spell would have failed."

Sam realized that was why the witch had been intent on holding him instead of just killing him. She would have needed him to keep a leash on Dean. His brother's overprotective nature was one of the few things Sam never had any doubts about. He would do almost anything to keep Sam safe. "How did you get us back here?"

"I didn't." She pointed toward the other bed. "Your brother did."

"Dean did? But how-"

"He took William's horse, put you on the back and rode all the way into town from her house."

The idea was so ridiculous Sam was starting to think he was dreaming, but the pain in his side was too real, and now that he thought about it, he seemed to remember someone talking to him, a low soothing voice as the road seemed to sway back and forth beneath him. Now he realized it hadn't been the road, it had been the horse.

"The horse was real?"

Mrs. Maples smiled sadly. "That was William's favorite mount. He raised him and trained him. Sometimes, I thought he liked that horse better than me."

Sam nodded. He knew someone equally attached to his ride.

"She included the horse in the spell," she continued. "She used anything she could to keep William to his purpose." She sighed. "I have the horse tied up out back at the moment. I suppose I'll have to find somewhere to stable him. One of the boys will know."

"Boys?"

For the first time she didn't look heartbroken. "I had three children before William was taken from us. It was only chance that kept them from the witch's hands as well, but they were saved. They had children who had children who had children. They all just call me Nana."

Sam considered the math and decided that given the size of the town, nearly half of them were probably related in some way to this woman. If they all knew about the spell and the witch, then virtually the entire area knew exactly what had been going on for generations.

"We kept hoping someone would figure out how to stop her," she said as if she'd read his mind. "Hunters would come every so often, but none of them could do it. William killed them, or they were forced to give up when they couldn't stop him. A few even figured out who the real problem was, but they couldn't get near the house. It was heavily warded and no one could get in without her say-so. If they made the mistake of just going after her, they were usually never heard from again."

"Is she dead?"

"Oh, yes," Mrs. Maples said emphatically. "Unless she can come back from a snapped neck and the house burnt down around her, then yes. When you two arrived here, I sent my boys to the house. They salted and burnt everything in that root cellar. Everything except William. They took his head to the cemetery. He's at rest now, all together again."

"Your husband broke her neck?"

"I think it was only fair," she replied. "So many were hanged because of her. She accused them of witchcraft and the idiots believed her instead of looking at the source. My William," tears began to fall silently, "he saved as many as he could, but he couldn't save them all. When she accused me, William was livid. He went to the house determined to kill her, but she knew what she was doing. She'd accused me just to get him to walk into her trap. William was lost to me after that." She roughly wiped the tears from her cheeks and straightened her shoulders. "But now he's at rest. And now, I suppose, I will finally grow old, and then I, too, will have my rest beside William."

Mrs. Maples stood and walked toward the bed where Dean was lying. She leaned over, whispered something Sam couldn't hear and then placed a gentle kiss on his forehead. She straightened and headed for the door. "Thank you again," she said to Sam. "Let me know if there is anything else I can do for you."

The door closed behind her, and Sam heard shuffling coming from the other bed. She'd said Dean was supposed to sleep for a while longer, but neither of them had ever really met people's expectations.

"She gone?" Dean's voice was rough and still sleep-filled.

"Yeah, man."

"Good. I's afraid she was gonna make us drink more of that gunk she brewed up. Tasted like tree bark and crap. Smelled even worse."

"Mmm," Sam said noncommittally. Now that he thought about it, there was a distinct aftertaste of something rancid in his mouth.

"Eye of newt, hair of dog, and a little pixie dust for taste," Dean muttered. "And I don't mean shake the pixie 'til she sparkles. I mean grind Tink up and stick her in the pot."

Now Sam knew how badly Dean was concussed. He was rambling about Tinkerbell. Normally, he would urge his brother to shut up, but Sam was curious.

"You really ride all the way back from her house?"

"Yup," Dean answered simply. "Just call me Robert Redford."

Sam frowned. "Huh?"

"Horse whisperer, dude."

"Where did you learn to ride a horse?" Sam asked.

"Not like it's hard," his brother mumbled offhandedly. "Horse does all the work."

Sam could tell Dean was nodding off again. "Did you work with horses somewhere?"

"Ranch," Dean said. "Hippie types. Horse rescue. Had a poltergeist. Me and Dad."

"You helped with a horse rescue operation?" Sam asked. That didn't sound like Dad. He was more the walk in, kick some ass, walk out type.

"Got hurt. Dad got a lead and left me there. They took care of me 'til he came back. Helped out when I could."

Sam's jaw tightened in anger, guessing everything that Dean wasn't saying. The action abruptly made his headache spike, and he must have made some sort of noise because Dean abruptly stopped talking. "You ok?" he asked.

"I'll be fine." It was the truth. Whatever she'd given them was obviously working. His headache was getting better. His side and ribs would take a bit longer, but it wasn't the first time for something like this.

"Then go back to sleep," Dean ordered. "Horseman's gone." Under his breath he added, "Always hated Lit Class."

Sam closed his eyes, no energy left to argue. He would ask his brother for more details later.

* * *

Dean tried to follow his own advice. His head hurt so badly, he was afraid he was going to be sick. He held very, very still, and thankfully, the urge passed. It was a good thing, too, because Dean doubted he'd have made it to the bathroom. In addition to the headache, he still felt... wrong. Whatever the witch had done to him was wearing off slowly, but his body wasn't quite his own just yet. Until it was, he'd better not have to make any quick movements, because they weren't going to happen.

It had been sheer luck that had gotten them back to the motel the night before. He'd managed to rouse himself in the basement just in time to see the horseman plunk his own head back on his body as he came through the doorway. Dead eyes had suddenly focused, and he had been very grateful they weren't focused on him. The horseman had headed straight for the witch and while she was muttering, trying to set up some spell to stop him, Maples had reached up and snapped her neck like a twig. She fallen to the floor, making gurgling noises that Dean wished he didn't remember. Maples had taken a step back, and then, like a small explosion, a burst of energy had thrown Dean off the table he'd been lying on.

When he'd opened his eyes again, the horseman's body was gone, just a pile of dust with a pickled human head sitting in the middle of it. Dean had decided that taking care of it and the witch would have to wait. He knew Sam was there somewhere. He'd heard the witch talking to him.

Dean had dragged himself to his feet, wavering in and out of consciousness, always holding on to a table or wall or shelf, anything to keep him upright. He'd quickly found Sam and it had taken far too long to get him up the cellar stairs. Dean had been forced to sit on a step with Sam's back to his chest. Dean had scooted up one step at a time, then pulled Sam up, over and over until they'd made it to the top.

Dean had stumbled past the horse toward the witch's car. He'd sworn viciously when there was no key, and he hadn't been able to hotwire the car. His vision had been graying out, and his hands were numb along with the rest of him. Even if he could've stayed awake long enough to go back down in the basement and get the keys from the witch, he doubted he would make it back into town without wrecking.

He'd only had one option left. He would have to let the horse do the driving.

Once the decision had been made, Dean had used up the last of his strength getting him and Sam up on the horse. He'd made use of the stairs leading up to the home to give them some height to get on. They wouldn't have managed otherwise. Everything after that had been hazy. He'd held on to Sam to keep him from falling off and they'd moseyed their way back to town.

Mrs. Maples had been sitting on a bench in front of the motel when they got there. He was pretty sure she'd been as happy to see the horse as she'd been to see them. She'd helped him off the horse, or he'd fallen off. He couldn't remember. He did remember helping her ease Sam down to the ground and into the room.

Next thing he remembered was her forcing that sludge of a potion down his throat. The stuff was helping though, so Dean would just have to sleep it off. Except Sam had brought up Auggie and his horses again. His brother just didn't know how to leave well enough alone.

Dean had been so pissed during that hunt. It was after Sam had left and, for a stretch in there, everything his dad did, no matter how insignificant, just rubbed him the wrong way. Maybe being alone with his dad with no one else to act as a buffer had finally gotten to him, or not having anyone to joke around with, or to talk about anything non-hunting related had made him nuts, but during that hunt at the ranch, his dad couldn't so much as eat his dinner without it pissing Dean off somehow. Everything he did was like fingernails on a chalkboard. Their dad hadn't said a word at the time, just kept working on the hunt doggedly, like always, which had pissed Dean off even more that his dad couldn't even be bothered to notice how pissed he was.

Of course, in retrospect, Dean knew that his dad had been well aware of the situation. It was probably why he'd ditched him as soon as Dean got hurt. The poltergeist had knocked him out of a hayloft, and he'd broken about everything one would expect to break falling out of a hayloft.

As soon as Dean had been released from the hospital, Dad had told him he'd found a new lead and headed out, leaving a barely mobile Dean at near Vesuvius levels of pissed off, coupled with a heaping pile of embarrassment that Dad had left Auggie and his wife, Sadie, virtual strangers, to take care of him.

Auggie and Sadie had been quiet, gentle, and generous people. In short, nothing he knew anything about. They'd simply taken care of him as best they could. After spending the next two months at the ranch, it had dawned on Dean that Sadie in particular treated him just like she did all of her skittish, injured or abused animals that needed looking after. And after being treated with patience and kindness for a couple of months, his anger had eased away and instead of being an angry, useless lump taking up a bunk, he'd started trying to help out, not much at first, then more and more as he'd healed up.

Lying next to Sam now, Dean realized he wasn't the only skittish, abused horse in this outfit. Nor was he the only one with a temper, unfortunately. Being knocked through a wall with a chest full of rock salt had quickly driven that point home.

At Auggie's, Dean had been forced to calm down and swallow his pride. He'd been forced to admit how useless his anger was given his place in Sam and his dad's life. He'd been forced to let people help him.

The witch had been right about one thing. Sam was still angry, still a mess after Jessica's death. Dean hadn't thought of it before, but Sam didn't have an Auggie and Sadie to help him through, so Dean was going to have to do. While he'd been hunting the scarecrow thing, he and Sam had come to a pseudo-peace, but it would go a long way if Dean could once again swallow his pride and put a lid on the snide comments.

Dean heard his brother shift in his bed, still awake, which was surprising since Sam looked like road pizza.

"You ok?" he asked, his skull turning it up a notch just at the vibrations from talking.

"Yeah." Sam didn't say anything else, but Dean could tell he wasn't asleep.

"Sam?"

"It's just... What she said..."

"Who?" he asked, although Dean was pretty sure he knew.

"The witch. What she said about wanting revenge.,,"

Dean remained silent. Obviously Sam's thoughts had turned in the same direction his had.

"I'm sorry."

"'Bout what?" Dean frowned. They'd already worked through a few things when they had their chat on the phone. Maybe things weren't perfect, but they were doing all right.

"The library."

"Ahh... Don't worry about it. My fault. I pissed you off."

"I stayed in the library for twenty minutes just to annoy you. I wanted to get back at you."

"Dude, if that's the worst thing you ever do to piss me off, then we're A-okay."

"Still..."

"S'fine, Sammy. Just get some rest."

They both fell silent and Dean almost thought his brother had finally followed an order without question when Sam turned toward him.

"What did she say to you?" he asked.

"Who?"

"Mrs. Maples. She said something before she left."

Dean couldn't help a smile. He did like a lady with moxie. "She said she'd think about the deposit."

Dean fell asleep to the sound of his brother's laughter.

* * *

_Thanks for reading. Hope you enjoyed this. Been a pleasure._


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